It seems the Brits have taken a shine to my ladies. Let me clarify; British restaurant owners love our daughters. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s our girls’ accents. As a family of outgoing people, we tend to get into conversations with those around us if we’re sitting still for more than a few minutes.

You know that if a restauranteur chases you outside because he thinks you tipped too much, or if another one insists on you emailing him a photo, then you’ve made a certain connection.

We heard stories about America from wonderful shop owners who told us their cousins lived in New Jersey (is that close to Michigan?). We’ve heard about family in Vegas, Louisiana and have seen pictures of friends who “look just like us.” At one restaurant we’ve been to in the past, the owner actually remembered Marci from years ago.

It’s a far cry from the warning we received on the way out the door by a funny friend, “Don’t get pick-pocketed.” It seems his sum total of knowledge about London is based on the musical, Oliver.

We were lucky enough to be the last diners in Rimon’s restaurant on Brick Lane. They decided to close up shop and sell their building. Bloody shame too; their kormas were the best we’ve ever tasted. But we heard about his plans to become a freelance IT guy and go to concerts every weekend when in the past, he had to work 70-80 hours weeks.

I think people are always searching for connections, whether their gruff exteriors or our haggard looks may throw up walls at first. It’s human nature to look for commonality. And yet there’s the dichotomy of familiarity. Our family can get real snippy with one and other; long days walking around and unfamiliar sleeping patterns can mess with you. But with others, we make the effort and take time to find out where they’re coming from.

I guess that’s human nature too.

We just need a little bit of time and space built into our go-go-go travels. So we’re taking a nice little morning break from family togetherness. Taylor’s doing homework; I’m blogging; Marci’s checking out TK Maxx (which looks exactly like the identical sounding American store) and Skye’s down getting a free haircut at a punk salon because she — you guessed it — spent time talking with them. Am I a bit worried about what shape and color her coif will be? Absolutely.

Am I worried about her getting ripped off? Nah. This ain’t Oliver.

(Nor is it like Doctor Who, which disappoints Skye to no end.)

The girls wished Rimon well as he closed up his Indian restaurant and looked forward to a new path.